


Cold Trance

by Spoilerhawk



Series: Watchpoint: Skyhold [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Relationships, City-Elf Fereldan Lena, Marcher Morrison, Multi, Orlesian Amélie, Rivaini Gabriel, This just in, dragon age au that no one asked for, shitty fanfic gets a sorta better sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoilerhawk/pseuds/Spoilerhawk
Summary: Lena goes for a midnight walk through Skyhold. She has a visitor.





	Cold Trance

**Author's Note:**

> wow, so some people liked Fever Dreams, even though it s u c k e d  
> also i may have gotten some things wrong, like the nobility thing and maybe a bit of french?

Lena didn't like nightmares.

As a soldier, and as the Inquisitor, they impaired her ability to fight or keep on her toes. If she was a jackboot like Morrison—Hana's words, not hers—that would be enough.

Of course, that wasn't it.

The nightmares she'd been graced with by whatever watched her from it's perch in the clouds gave her the handy ability to relive her experiences in the Fade. All the king's mages and all the king's potions couldn't make Lena's dreams get any better. Those roiling visions of the Fade, chaotic by nature and seething with old magic, those scared her. She didn't need to relive what had happened at the Temple. Besides, spiders had always given her the heebie-jeebies.

Her response to these nightmares was usually just "buck up, you're the Inquisitor," but tonight was different. She didn't need to roam the Storm Coast the next day. For once, nothing was scheduled for her to do other than unwind in the safety of the Inquisition's stronghold.

So, the little elf snatched her weird Antivan brassiere—sounded more Orlesian, honestly, damn snobs that they were—from the floor, and immediately cast it away from her. Not like they were noticeable anyway, what did anyone care? Lena took her leather coat from the hook, and a thin Fustian shirt she was rather partial to; one the mages enchanted to turn away blades and the cold. Went well with her ratty brown coat, too, which was still important.

Once she was clothed, the elf ran a hand through the deepstalker's nest she called hair and made a quick jaunt to the battlements overlooking the Frostback Mountains. The moon, still on the rise, shone on the ancient brick and the courtyard below her. Tired soldiers made their rounds, some filling in for their mates and some asleep at their post. Lena smiled at that little display.

If Morrison would get his ass out of the war room—or more appropriately, Gabriel's room—he'd be liable to have an aneurysm.

Lena, ever curious, took the opportunity to hazard a glance at the tower their Spymaster was holed up in. As she suspected, the candles were lit.

The Inquisitor giggled and continued through the ramparts, where she'd send patrolling soldiers to bed. She could do this herself. She was a big girl. Her anchor gave off a muted glow very so often, lighting her way through the dark.

And then she heard it.

" _Bonjour, ma petite chou._ " Came a slow, silky Orlesian accent in the darkness. Lena felt her heart sink. Hands finding her hips, she realized her daggers weren't with her, and she didn't have enough time to even _blink_ before she felt a knee in the small of her back, and the biting cold wind on her face. Instead of hitting the ground, Lena rolled on her side and scrambled to her feet, grabbing a jagged piece of stone to use as a weapon.

"Uh, 'scuse you!" Came the elf's indignant Fereldan voice, rising a bit higher in pitch. "Here I am, love, just taking a nice walk on the walls, and you show up? Just my luck." Lena flipped the 'dagger,' holding it backhand. The elf's knife hand began to burn an intense green, before that same glow overtook Lena's body just as she threw herself forward. In just a second, the girl reappeared, reality making way for her with a _crack,_ and Lena came crashing into her assailant, who tumbled back before catching herself and rolling to the side.

Lena recovered and lunged, stabbing at the Orlesian with a snarl on her lips. In a fluid motion, the Widowmaker side-stepped and swept her leg, using Lena's momentum to send her flying back onto the brick. And this time, she couldn't recover. The assassin snapped her hand forward into the mass of dark brown hair and took a handful of it. Sharply did she pull Lena up, eyes like sovereigns in the dark.

Seriously, they glowed!

"If you'd take a moment and _listen to me_ , you'd understand that I am not here to kill y—"

"You _kneed me in the back._ What did you expect to happen, love, think'd just sit there and let you whale on me?"

Widowmaker, unamused, held her by the locks over the ramparts. Her grip tightened. "Interrupting is rude, _chérie_ , and it's a long way down."

Lena immediately shut up, eyes turning to look below at the abyssal dark below. Just as quickly, her eyes turned to gaze into her assailant's.

"Good girl." Widowmaker didn't smile, but her voice was laced with a deadpan satisfaction. "Now, you're going to tell me what I need to know. If you don't..." The Orlesian threw Lena into the air and caught her deftly by the hair once again. Lena, ever a sharp one, let out a screech a few seconds too late. She hadn't registered that no, she wasn't going to die, and yes, she was okay.

"I will drop you. What is your name?" Ever calm, the Repose agent's eyebrow arched with curiosity.

Once she gathered herself, the brunette blinked and made an obscene gesture (earning a snort of derision from the assassin).

"Name's Lena. Lena Oxton."

"It does not sound—"

"Elven? None of you can pronounce our names anyway, what's the point?"

Bemused, the assassin spoke once again, voice low. " _Lena. Le-na..._ "

Lena felt her heart thump at that, because _Andraste's ass_ did that get the blood running. Full, wintry blue lips, repeating her name, Lena'd be able to die happy.

_Focus._

"So, what's yours? I mean, your real name." Lena crossed her arms, kicking her legs back and forth. She could get used to dangling over the abyss.

"I am the Widowmaker."

"Come off it, love, spit your real name out."

Recoiling in slight indignation, the assassin chucked Lena bodily onto the ramparts. Grunting, she tried to get up and felt the air leave her when the high-heeled boots slammed right into her chest. Allowing the elf to catch her breath, the cold-skinned Orlesian knelt down, boot still restraining her. Faces inches apart, the woman allowed a saccharine smile and began to laugh menacingly.

"Comtesse du Montsimmard , Amélie Lacroix. You have nerve addressing nobility the way you do, Inquisitor." Still smiling, she leaned in, lips brushing against the elf's ear.

"We'll cross paths again, Inquisitor. Your contract is dissolved." Amélie moved away from Lena, eyes darting to the side. Footsteps resounded in the dark behind them. The woman's odd circlet collapsed over the top half over her face, a deathly black, almost spider-like mask encrusted with rubies. She produced a black line of rope and in a second she was gone, having dived over the edge of the ramparts.

A hard Marcher accent broke the air. "Inquisitor! One of our soldiers reported violence on the walls, said he saw your blinking." There stood Jack Morrison, blade drawn and resting on his...bare shoulders.

A towel was wrapped around his hips, sweat stuck to his stubble. Blond hair stuck to his head, and he tried to warm himself up in the cold mountain air.

On his heels was a bear of a man, towering at least two feet taller than Lena and a bit taller than Morrison himself. A black cloak dusted the stones below, and a thick beard obscured most of Gabriel Reyes's face. He was not a man to trifle with.

It helped that he normally wore a heavy steel owl's mask, a symbol of his position as Spymaster.

Behind him, a shapely silhouette sprinted away, deeper into the stronghold.

Lena smiled and stood up when Morrison offered a hand.

Gabriel shouldered past Morrison and clapped a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Inquisitor. You're alright." His voice was gravelly. She supposed it fit his role. "Skyhold is sealed off, and the walls are too high even for a trained assassin to scale. The only places she could escape are now heavily guarded, and we have men scouring the castle grounds for our assassin."

Morrison stepped in, teeth chattering. Wasn't a good idea, being effectively naked and wet in the Frostbacks. "You were out of line, Oxton. Walking alone, not even with a weapon? What gave you the confidence to strut around like that? Explain yourself, Inquisitor."

Lena was about to give a weak response, but Gabriel simply glared at Morrison. He backed down, shooting the Inquisitor an apologetic look. "I'm...sorry, Inquisitor. I shouldn't bother as much with 'what-ifs.'"

Reyes nodded. "Go, get some rest. We'll not call for you tomorrow." Gabe gave her another pat on the shoulder and walked away, taking Morrison with him back to their quarters. Lena saw them off, and blinked the rest of the way to her quarters. The brunette closed her door—the damn thing was ajar, she must have been clumsy—and tossed her coat away. And then went the shirt. And then her trousers.

Even as she stared at the rafters above her, drifting off into slumber as the first carnelian rays of dawn peeked over the Frostbacks behind the Dalish curtains, she never noticed the bloody red of some rubies. Nor the gentle periwinkle flesh of a certain Spider. The gentle curve of a hip darker than the ceiling, and the eyes of gold that took in every inch of the room, and of the Inquisitor.

No, she didn't notice the Widowmaker, who watched vigil over the elf as she slept while the rest of the world awoke.


End file.
